by Steven Dunne
‘And then I was ready. Wednesday nights the girl had ante-natal classes and Roddy always walked her to the bus stop. That was the kind of guy he was. He had his own van you know, but he let his eight-month pregnant girlfriend get the fucking bus in winter.
‘So that was my chance to do him, without killing the girl. And the child.’ He paused. ‘I took my bag of fresh clothes and my sawn-off and I let myself in. Nobody saw me. Nobody took any interest in anything but their own business.’ Rowlands began to cough and took another draught of whisky to recover his breath. Brook tucked the blanket tightly around his legs for something to do. He knew the rest but resolved to hear the confession. It was better for Charlie to get it off his chest. There’d still be plenty left in there to kill him.
‘When he came back I sat him down-it wasn’t difficult, he was a snivelling coward. I showed him a picture of Elizabeth.’ Rowlands emitted a strangled laugh. ‘You’ll never guess.’
Brook’s face broke into a sad smile. ‘He didn’t know who she was.’
‘Not a fucking clue. Had me stumped for a while, I can tell you. But then I showed him the ring. The twenty pound ring. And I had him. He remembered the ring. He couldn’t hide that.
‘That’s when he got scared. He realised. And I was right. He begged me. Begged me, Damen. Prayed to me like I was God. You should have seen his face. I’ve never seen anything like it, the look I saw in his eyes that night. That piece of shit begging me, crying for his worthless life. I couldn’t believe it could be so precious to somebody like him.’ Rowlands shook his head in wonder. ‘So precious. After Lizzie died I could have sucked on my gun a dozen times a day and smiled doing it. I don’t need to tell you. But Telfer. He wanted to live so much. It threw me.
‘And I knew then I couldn’t do it. And suddenly he knew it. So he started talking. Talking me down. Trying to get to know me. Make me believe him that he’d finished with all the drugs and the fencing and the nicking. Then he made a fatal mistake. He swore it to me on the life of his unborn child.’ Charlie looked at the floor and tried to get his breath back. He took another pull on the whisky.
‘And then?’ asked Brook after a short silence.
‘Then I blew his head apart.’
Brook nodded. ‘And wrote on the walls?’
‘I don’t remember doing it but I did.’
‘Then his girlfriend came back.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you strangled her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did she come back?’
‘She was having…pains.’
Brook ground out his cigarette in an ashtray took the bottle from Rowlands and poured a capful of whisky and drank it down. He looked at Rowlands. It wasn’t a look of judgement. Rowlands stared back, waiting.
‘Go on.’
‘Go on where, laddie?’
‘What happened then?’
‘I changed clothes and I left.’ There was silence. Brook sensed there was something more. He waited for Rowlands to continue. When he did there were tears in his eyes. ‘There are some things you should never see, Brooky I see that little face as much as Lizzie’s now…’
‘Whose face?’
Rowlands head fell to the side, his eyes shut. Brook half stood and listened for the rasp of shallow breathing. He sat down again when he heard it. There was time yet.
Brook took another swig of whisky. He grimaced at its harshness and spun the cap back on the bottle. He went to the kitchen to make coffee.
When he sat back down, Rowlands was conscious again. He’d lit another cigarette. His eyes, bleary from booze and smoke, were trained on the floor.
For an hour they sat like that, saying nothing, Rowlands taking the occasional chug from his bottle. From time to time he would close his eyes and doze fitfully, his head lolling from side to side like a puppet, devoid of the strength to control its movement.
Brook didn’t know what to do next so he resolved just to be there. If Charlie Rowlands was to die tonight, he would be there for him, as a friend, to bring comfort, to help him on his final journey to his Lizzie. He couldn’t pressure him, couldn’t judge him.
And Brook knew whatever Rowlands told him tonight was not for public consumption. No matter his promise to McMaster to bring her The Reaper, if it meant besmirching his old boss, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Yes, he’d killed two people, three if you counted the unborn child, but it was a long time ago. Roddy Telfer and his common law wife hadn’t been missed. The child was the real tragedy. The same as the Wrigley girl. And Kylie Wallis. And maybe, given what happened to them, Charlie Rowlands had saved the child from a life of misery and abuse. Saved the child. Saved.
Brook realised he was cold and went into the kitchen. He paced up and down to get warm before picking up the sheaf of papers from the kitchen table.
The first few pages were handwritten and faded. Brook leafed through until he came to a newer section that had been word-processed. At the back was a wad of clippings from the Derby Evening Telegraph. His eye was taken by the headline, ‘Derby Schoolboy Accused of Attacking Teacher.’ Most of the clippings were about Jason’s brush with infamy though he wasn’t named for obvious reasons. There was no mention of Annie Sewell.
Brook lit another cigarette and turned back to the printed pages. He sat down and began to read.
To Damen, my friend
I hadn’t seen or spoken to Victor Sorenson since 1993, until that day last year when he walked up to my bed in the cancer ward. I don’t know how he knew I was there, said he’d come for tests himself and had seen me sitting outside Radiology. I’m not sure I believe him. Nobody, you included, Brooky, had a sniff of my illness.
I should have known he wanted something. The next day he walks in with a bottle of my favourite rum and starts talking about the old days. Like we were old friends who’d worked together for years orsomething, not murderers who’ve killed kiddies before their lives had even begun. I’m assuming a lot to say he’s a killer. He never admitted he was The Reaper to either of us, but what he don’t know about his MO isn’t worth knowing.
Anyway, he says he’s got another proposition for me and tells me about this old girl he’s met, Annie Sewell, and what she’s done. Ask him what she did, he’ll tell you. I don’t know how he knows but he does. He’s got the hospital records and you can see how she did it, and how it was missed. It’s all circumstantial but we both know him too well to doubt it. And I guess he’s right. She deserves to die alright. But I reckon she deserves to live more. Live with what she’s done. Suffer like I’ve suffered since Leeds. And since Lizzie.
And he’s telling me all this, like I’m interested, and saying I don’t have to do anything other than point her out to some scumbag who’s going to take care of her. And I’m looking at him, wondering who the fuck does he think he is, telling me all this shit. Like I’m going to help him kill the old bird.
So I tell him. I don’t care one way or the other about this Annie Sewell. As far as I’m concerned, topping her is letting her off easy and he can do what he likes but there’s no way, nothing he can say or do to make me help him.
And he looks at me with those fucking black eyes and he thinks what he’s going to say next. And I’m waiting for the threats, the blackmail, how he’s going to turn me in over Roddy Telfer if I don’t play ball.But he says nothing. He seems to know I’m too far gone to care about my reputation. Just sits there smiling Then he nods and says it’s okay and that he knew it would be too much to ask, even if it helps you, Brooky.
So I asked him what this had to do with you and he starts on about The Reaper, like it’s another person. About Brixton, how Wrigley and his family died for you, because Floyd Wrigley killed that girl you found. Laura something. And he says that’s why you packed in looking for The Reaper, because you knew Wrigley deserved to die.
Well, I don’t buy any of that shit either but on he goes. And now he’s talking about Amy and Terri and how you’ve lost them and lost yourself. H
e says this is The Reaper’s final job and he has to do it in Derby, for your sake, because you need to get back on the old case and catch The Reaper so you can put it to rest and find some peace for yourself. That’s his only reason for doing it again. For you to heal yourself. He says we both owe it to you. We’re responsible.
I don’t know, Brooky. Even when I was telling him it was bullshit, I was thinking about it and persuading myself it was a good idea. Maybe this old bird feels like I do after Leeds. Maybe I’ll be doing her a favour. And I reckon I was right. But that’s not why I agreed to it. It was knowing you the way I do. Knowing you back then, how it got to you.
And the family The Reaper’s going to take out won’t be missed. Sorenson gave me some clippingsabout what the son’s been up to and the dad’s got form. I don’t know who else there is but I can’t lie and say I care. I’ve seen enough of these people to know how they turn out. I only care about Lizzie and you now.
And myself? I have to come clean. It was selfish but I knew if The Reaper came back I’d see you again. I don’t have long and you’re the best friend I’ve got left, Brooky The best friend I’ve ever had. Honest. Anyway I don’t need to tell you my decision. And I don’t need to tell you Sorenson didn’t even pretend to be surprised when I changed my mind. He’s too fucking clever by half.
Now I’m not sure how much you’ve already worked out about what happened in Derby but here it is.
Two days before the killings, he picks me up at my house. He’s driving. I don’t know if the car’s his or hired but I think it’s hired. It’s clean. He drives us to Derby. It takes ages. He drives like a funeral director, which I suppose he is in a way. Fifty-five all the way up the M1.
I’m staying at The International Hotel in Derby, he tells me. On the way he gives me a wig and some specs to wear. Just to make things a bit more challenging for you. I’m to wear them at all times and I can’t take my gloves off, I have to find an excuse for that and the fact that I can’t sign my name.
I worked out that Sorenson wants you to think I’m him if that makes sense. I asked him how my dressing up like a freak is going to grab your attention and he says I’m to register at the hotel as SammyElphick from Harlesden. Well, I knew that would do the trick. Like either of us could forget that night.
When we arrived in Derby, he dropped me at the hotel. He’s not staying there but in some B amp; B up in the Peaks I think-miles away so you don’t trace him. He says to meet him at a pub the night after. The Blue Peter it was called. So I meet him there, only this time he’s driving a white van. Hired locally I think.
He gives me a holdall. Inside there’s a brand new mobile. There are two phone numbers on speed dial-one’s a mobile number, the other’s local. There’s a plastic bag with fifty ecstasy tablets in, a small bag of coke and two grand in cash. There’s also a gun, one of those instant cameras that cough out a picture straight away and a street map with Annie Sewell’s sheltered accommodation marked in red. Her flat number’s on it-20a.
I’m to meet some thug called Banger in the pub in half an hour. Give him the map, the coke and?100. Show him the rest of the cash and the tabs, which are his, if he kills Annie Sewell the next night between 7pm and 8pm. No earlier. No later. I’ve got to make sure he sees the gun in case he gets any ideas, and give him the camera so he can take a picture of Annie Sewell’s body to prove he’s earned the rest of the cash and drugs.
I’m to watch the guy go in, then ring Sorenson after seven on the mobile number he’s given me, to tell him it’s under way.
When it’s over, I meet Banger back at The BluePeter, check the photograph and hand over the plastic bag. I get a minicab back to the hotel and phone the other number. It’s for the warden at the sheltered accommodation. I report a disturbance anonymously to make sure she’s found at the right time.
The next day, I checked out and got a cab to a place called Long Eaton a few miles away and pick up the train back to London. My idea-so you won’t get me on camera at Derby Station. I take the mobile phone apart and throw the pieces out of the train.
Sorenson says if the timings are right you’ll pick up The Reaper case. Not some bumpkin who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.
And that’s more or less what happened, except Banger did the job with a couple of friends and one turned out to be young Jason Wallis. When they walked into the pub after the job, they looked really young and they were high as kites. I’m not sure it was just the drugs either.
Of course, none of that would be possible without knowing your duty roster. Fortunately-that’s the wrong word-nothing’s been left to chance. I think Sorenson has a contact that has a contact in Derby nick.
Brook smiled. ‘Brian Burton.’
Sorenson knows who’ll be on duty and get the Sewell case and he knows you’re on call if anything else happens. I don’t know who it is but my money would be on that Burton journo from the pressconference. Remember how well informed he was-slimy little pencil neck. I wouldn’t think he knows who’s pulling his strings but when has that ever bothered those vultures?
That’s about it really except for this kid Banger. I had no idea he was a mate of Jason Wallis and he’d rope him and another kid into the murder and I’m not sure Sorenson knew either. And who says crime doesn’t pay? The little punk murders a stranger and it saves him from a date with The Reaper. Funny thing. Sorenson didn’t seem put out by that. In fact, he seemed pleased even though this Jason character deserves to have his throat cut worse than most. I even wondered if somehow that was all part of the plan but I don’t see how. What the fuck. I’ve wasted enough time thinking about it. You figure it out.
I can only think of Lizzie now. I’m dying to see her. A favour though, Brooky See me under the ground next to her. And tell my ex to go fuck herself. I love you for everything you’ve done for me, no matter what the cost to yourself. Time for a drink. Cheers. Charlie. 29th December.
Brook folded the papers and slipped them inside his coat. Now there was nothing to do but wait. He knew everything Charlie knew. Almost everything.
Brook sat opposite his old boss. The old man’s chest still moved. His breath still whistled faintly through his teeth but the noise was diminishing. There wasn’t long.
Brook sat forward and cupped Rowlands emaciated hands in his. For a split second he fancied he could see something. Something terrible-blood everywhere, covering everything…and deep in the blood a tiny face, eyes closed. He removed his hand then rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He stood up to walk around. ‘I’m going mad,’ he muttered. ‘Again.’
There was a grating sigh. Rowlands’ chest stopped moving. Brook checked his pulse. There wasn’t one. He held a withered hand in his. Charlie was gone.
Brook sat back and closed his eyes. He took a few moments to remember his friend. Then he reached into his own pocket and pulled out the silver necklace he had carried with him for so long. Laura’s necklace. He removed the sapphire ring from Rowlands’ waistcoat pocket and slid it onto the necklace before refastening the clasp and putting it back in his own pocket. ‘Safekeeping, Charlie. I’ll give it back when it’s time. Goodbye, old friend. Give my love to Lizzie.’ Brook made to leave but turned back at the door. ‘And Laura.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was the early hours before Brook pulled onto the forecourt of the Hilton and stepped from the car. He handed the keys to the doorman and carried his small overnight bag to reception and registered. If the girl swiping his credit card recognised him from his last visit she didn’t show it. He ordered a 9.30 breakfast and headed for the lift.
Inside his room he flopped fully clothed onto the bed and slept soundly for a couple of hours, his mind untroubled and his dreams at bay.
Later he sat on the bed, wet towel round his waist, downing the last of his coffee. He turned the TV to mute and picked up Noble’s mobile and dialled.
‘Can you speak, John?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything on Petr Sorenson yet?
’
‘No form at all but he’s local. A student. He lives in halls at Nottingham University.’
‘Really.’ Brook was thoughtful. Vicky’s brother was not more than fifteen miles from Derby. He had a more than reasonable excuse to meet his sister’s train. On the other hand if Sorenson’s nephew had taken up the mantle from his uncle, what better place to revive The Reaper murders than Brook’s new home?
‘Sir…’
‘What’s he studying?’
‘Er…Chemistry? Inspector…’
‘Interesting but not surprising. That’s how the family made their money.’
‘Inspector Brook, listen. We’ve found something. I put a rush on Jason’s clothes.’
‘I knew it. Get a team to Annie Sewell’s…’
‘It’s not fibres. They’re still working on that. It’s not what we expected. It’s blood.’
‘Blood? Whose?’
‘His father’s…’
‘What? That means…’
‘No it doesn’t. Let me finish. We found minute traces in a series of small cuts on his jacket.’
‘Did you say cuts?’
‘Yes. Cuts. Very thin. With what looks like the murder weapon. Someone cut the letter R into the material-R for REAPER. That’s how the blood got there. It was very small and under his arm so it wasn’t spotted at the scene.’
‘Jesus.’ Brook’s mind was flooded with images and scenarios. Noble kept silent at the other end of the line to let the implications sink in. ‘The Reaper was still there when Jason got home, John. That’s why Jason didn’t hear music.’
‘Right. The neighbour, Mr Singh, said it was turned down for a few minutes. The Reaper turned it down after he killedBobby. He saw Jason coming and waited for him in the living room. When he didn’t show he guessed what had happened and went to find him spark out in the kitchen.’